


Feedback Loop

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-21
Updated: 2011-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:30:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting around to having sex might take all day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feedback Loop

[prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5564.html?thread=19524796#t19524796): “Sherlock is an ‘orgasm announcer.’” (Follow the link to read the full prompt.)  
   
 

   
Getting around to having sex might take all day. The whole process -- from expressing initial interest to completion of the act -- was an unhurried, placid push-pull, that might not begin to accelerate until it was nearly over.  
   
John, being the one more securely tethered to his mortal coil and its earthly weaknesses, would usually, but not always, be the one to initiate. Whilst bringing Sherlock his tea, for example, he might lean over and nose at the spot behind Sherlock’s ear, saying something like, “You smell good.”  
   
“I haven’t showered in two days,” Sherlock might protest in turn.  
   
“I know.”  
   
It could very well end there for the day. But if Sherlock was feeling similarly inclined -- if he didn’t anticipate a visit from Lestrade, if nothing in the day’s obituaries struck him -- he would communicate his willingness by, say, approaching John when he was working on his laptop and bend much lower and nearer to John than strictly necessary to take a file from the stack on the table in front of him. These nudges, sometimes accompanied by obliquely carnal mutterings, would go on like this until late afternoon or evening, at which point they would make their way to the bedroom.  
   
Lying on their sides, John spooned up behind Sherlock, was the ideal position for a long, slow fuck. (Whenever he mentioned the act aloud, Sherlock called it “fucking.” To John’s ears, the way Sherlock said it didn’t seem so vulgar.) The streets of London were for danger and excitement, and the sitting room of 221B was for drama and tension, but the bedroom was for intimacy and quiet. And so just about everything they did there was intimate and quiet.  
   
John would gently rock his way into Sherlock’s body, and, once seated there, would establish a leisurely, undemanding rhythm that afforded much pleasure but little in the way of throbbing, flailing abandon.  
   
This particular day, they’d retired to the bedroom mid-afternoon, and a broad stripe of sunlight fell across their flanks. They’d been quietly rocking back and forth, Sherlock in John’s arms, for so long, John wondered if they might end up with some oddly-located tan lines.  
   
John pressed kisses to the nape of Sherlock’s neck, clumsily trying to nose his hair out of the way to get at that ticklish spot. Then he paused, clucked his tongue, and placed a hand on Sherlock’s hip as he gently removed himself. “Lube’s gone a bit sticky,” he murmured. “Just give me a moment.”  
   
Whilst John reapplied the lube to himself, Sherlock turned so he was on his back, his arms and legs tensed and  ready to clasp John to him. Though the position could be a bit rough on John’s shoulder, he happily mounted Sherlock this way, as he enjoyed being held, and relished the opportunity to scrutinise Sherlock’s endearingly vulnerable facial expressions.  
   
When he slid back inside, Sherlock uttered a deep, throaty “ _Oh_.” John wasn’t trying any tricks, he was just putting it back in. But it seemed he’d hit the sweet spot.  
   
As John continued, Sherlock said “Oh” again, and then, “John, I think I’m going to come,” in the same urgent, whispered way someone might say _Did you hear that? I think there’s someone in the house_. John took the cue and began to move more insistently, snapping his hips at the end of each stroke. And then, Sherlock seemed to transform beneath him, from a warm, quiet creature to a writhing, lustful animal.  
   
The cocoon that had been Sherlock’s limbs left John, and its components were flung in all directions. He planted both feet flat on the mattress so he could roll his hips to receive John’s cock in just the right way. He braced himself against the headboard with one hand and jerked himself with the other, grunting, “Yes, good and deep for me while I come.”  
   
John could feel his own orgasm threatening to break through, and listening to Sherlock’s licentious babbling wasn’t helping. But he vowed to hold off until he was sure that Sherlock was actually climaxing, and not just in love with the sound of his own cries of ecstasy.  
   
“I’m going to come,” Sherlock panted as his spine kinked and arched. “I’m going to come. Okay, I’m coming now. I’m coming, _oh God I’m coming!_ ”  
   
Then the noises started. Noises that filled the room and threatened to seep out into neighboring residences. Sharp, undignified squeals and strangled moans. Each one was a response to one of John’s powerful pushes into his body, and each one made John want to push harder, to test the limits of Sherlock’s lungs and throat.  
   
Sherlock pumped his cock as though coaxing it to spurt required ruthless effort, and squeezed his eyes shut as he began to ejaculate. When he saw that Sherlock was going, John took his foot off the brake, as it were, and let himself find his own orgasm. It was warm and spread through his whole body, eliciting a simple groan, a serene contrast to Sherlock’s vociferous thrashing.  
   
When the need to thrust dissipated, John tried to slow down, but Sherlock urged him on, shrieking, “Christ, John, I’m still coming.” As if to prove his assertion, he managed to entice one last dribble from the dilated slit of his cock.  
   
John winced as Sherlock’s insides rubbed the oversensitive head of his still-hard cock, but he gritted his teeth and kept fucking, determined to continue until Sherlock was satiated.  
   
Finally, Sherlock began to quiet; he flinched and pressed a hand to John’s shoulder, as if to push him off. John stopped immediately, and slowly let his soft cock slip out of its own accord. Once it had, he rolled to the side, breathless and grinning. Sherlock’s expression was beatific, his eyes shut and his mouth just barely open. John gave him a kiss on the mouth. Sherlock remained still. “Was that a good one, then?” John teased.  
   
Sherlock put a finger to John’s lips. “Shh,” he said. “I’ve got some lovely white noise in my head that I’m enjoying just now.”


End file.
